


Death and All His Friends

by Victorionious



Category: The Following, Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Twins, Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Doppelgänger Verse, Gen, Implied/Referenced Violence, Insomnia, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:16:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorionious/pseuds/Victorionious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Steve comes back, the nights are long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and All His Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeathersMcStrange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeathersMcStrange/gifts).



> Part of an emotions prompt challenge Lexie (FeathersMcStrange here, aromanticgcallen on tumblr) and I are doing! We gave each other obscure emotion-words and characters from some of our favorite fandoms and said "have at it!" This one is for dgverse, a crossover between Warehouse 13 and The Following, years in the making by myself and Lexie, in which Mike Weston and Steve Jinks are actually twins. See the related works for more in this 'verse!
> 
> This prompt was for Steve.

> **NIGHTHAWKE** - a recurring thought that only seems to strike you at night

_I’m dead_ , Steve thinks. Then he thinks it again, words cloying in his brain.  _I’m dead_. He rolls over and buries his head in his pillow. _He_ wasn’t buried, he thinks. It wasn’t long enough for them to bury his body, neck twisted at an unnatural angle by those _hands_ , the fatal injection only a precautionary method, heart stopped in its tracks, pushed forward only by a fucking _artifact_ , tick, tick, tick, tick, steady, steady, steady, even though it really shouldn’t be at this point, he can feel it, the magically induced pace running through his chest.

 _I’m dead_ , he thinks, and he rolls over on his back with a gust of breath. The ceiling is dark and fuzzy, illuminated only by the moon and the streetlights casting light through his window. He can’t make out the texture of the paint, can’t make out the details of the bookcase across his room at the bed and breakfast.

 _I died,_ he thinks, and while he can never actually forget it, it’s worse at night, when he’s alone. And he’s already crawled in bed next to Claudia three times this week, let her hold him as he shook and fell apart, and Myka and Artie have each caught him working far too late. Pete’s been giving him _those looks_ , the one that make him feel like he’s going to be forcibly sat at a table in that one diner with the amazing pie and made subject to another of Pete’s many admonitions to take care of himself, to sleep regularly, to eat right and take showers at least a few times a week because every day is probably asking too much but really, now, there’s a limit. So, really, he has to stay in his room. He has to get up at a “reasonable” hour the next day and put on a big smile and pretend that nothing’s wrong, that his skin wasn’t cold when they found him and his eyes weren’t wide open, not that he can remember it. He knows they can.

 _I’m a dead man_ , Steve thinks, and then he thinks of Mike, and the tears prickle at his eyes once again. He misses him, and he misses him _fiercely._ The time they spent together wasn’t enough, would never be enough, and everything is always going to hell with him and Ryan. Mike lost him, Mike lost him and he only barely got him back, and who the hell knows for how long? None of them do. No one knows whether the metronome will keep him tied to it forever, or what side effects it could cause. Claudia shouldn’t have done it, he knows, but he can’t help but be grateful that she did.

 _I’m dead_ , he thinks again, with a giddy breath that barely gives voice to a laugh. _I’m dead but I’m still alive_. He can’t sleep, doesn’t know if he’ll ever get a good night’s sleep again. Everything is pretty much perpetually fucked, but he closes his eyes anyway and hopes for the best, hopes that he’ll still be alive to think of it tomorrow night, and the night after that.


End file.
